


your loving arms (wrapped around my doubt)

by overjoyed (heavydiirtysoul)



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Ballet, Dan is a college student, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kyle is a ballet dancer, M/M, dyle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-22 00:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12469508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavydiirtysoul/pseuds/overjoyed
Summary: The day ends, as do they all, with him leaving in the opposite direction of where his apartment is. He takes the bus down to the city center, gets off at the same station as always, makes the brief walk down to the Centre of Fine Arts.The steps are still so familiar, almost carved into his skin and into every fibre of his being as he climbs them, comes to a halt halfway, his usual ritual. Stares at the doors, debates.Leaves.He's not ready yet.***The one where Kyle used to be a dancer and Dan is just some hipster with glasses and a scarf and a love for black coffee in one very specific café in town.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this picture](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DM2IwJDWsAISp7X.jpg:large), which somehow made me think of Kyle as a dancer and then, you know. I just had to.

The movements are as familiar to him as the back of his hand. With ease, he moves his body across the stage, lets himself get lost in the weightlessness of the dance as the music carries him wherever he needs to go. It happens without thought, without doubt - he knows what he's doing by heart, would close his eyes if it wasn't for the people watching him intently. It doesn't matter, really, all the eyes glued on him. He's used to it.

The next figure is probably the most complex one in this particular choreography, but he knows he can trust his body. Throws himself into the jump, quickly followed by a pirouette, and before his left foot has even left the ground he knows something is wrong, but it's too late, he can't stop anymore, is completely and utterly at the mercy of his own momentum, and time seems to come to a halt as he watches his own body betray him.

With a heartwrenching crack, his foot slams into the ground, and he can feel the sinew tear, the sharp pain shooting up his leg -

He wakes up breathless, gasps for air, heart beating out of his chest.

Cold sweat makes the blanket stick to his body, and he wiggles out of it, tries to calm his racing breath, helplessly grasps for any straw of reality he can get ahold of. You're in bed. You're okay.

His feet touch the ground, and the familiar pull of dull pain in his leg reminds him that every single one of those dreams has a hint of reality buried somewhere - a jump, a fall, the end of a promising career in the blink of an eye.

For a while, he just sits on the edge of his bed, gives his mind time to find its way back to the moment, back into the small bedroom of his apartment. 

Barefeet, he finally makes his way to his kitchenette, pours himself a glass of water, downs it in one big gulp. He feels dried out, as if he has just finished a marathon, leans onto the counter just to make sure his legs don't give out beneath him. It's not like he's really that weak anymore - physical therapy had done it's wonders to a certain degree, but his mind is still playing tricks on him and he's better safe than sorry these days.

A quick look to the clock quietly ticking away above the couch reveals the futility of going back to sleep - it's 5 in the morning, and he has to be up in 30 minutes anyways, so he decides to take a quick shower, wash the last traces of the lingering nightmare away.

He does feel refreshed when he finally throws on a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt, proceeds to make himself some coffee and actually has breakfast for once, even if it just consists of two slices of toast and jam while he skims the pages of today's newspaper.

New day, same bullshit, he thinks to himself as he pulls the door to his apartment close behind him, takes the steps with more hurry than usually because the damn breakfast has somehow made him late despite the extra 30 minutes this morning. He's not exactly sure how he manages to always be late, no matter what time he gets up, but he has stopped asking himself that a while ago. Never happened to him when he still had the engagement at the local ballet company, but that's a topic for his next therapy session, not his daily walk to work.

"Morning, Kyle", the mailman greets him as they meet at the door, and Kyle just nods back with a thin smile - he's not in the mood for small talk, even though Pete is a friendly man and he usually likes talking to him.

"Good day to you too", he hears him mutter under his breath as he stuffs the mailboxes, but Kyle pretends he didn't hear him and rushes down the street for his barely 5 minute long walk to work. 

He's lucky in the way that the small café he works at now is really close by, and he enters the shop with his usual wave towards Jenny, who is, as always, already parked behind the counter. "You're late", she says, a stern look accompanied by a few taps on her wristwatch, and Kyle rolls his eyes. "Where's the news", he asks, and Jenny just shakes her head. 

"We could replace you anytime, you know", she finally says when they're on break in the back of the café, and Kyle nods as he chugs down an entire cup of black coffee in one go. "But you never do", he says, and Jenny sighs. "You're lucky the boss likes you." "Guess so."

The day ends, as do they all, with him leaving in the opposite direction of where his apartment is. He takes the bus down to the city center, gets off at the same station as always, makes the brief walk down to the Centre of Fine Arts.

The steps are still so familiar, almost carved into his skin and into every fibre of his being as he climbs them, comes to a halt halfway, his usual ritual. Stares at the doors, debates. 

Leaves.

He's not ready yet.

***

The letter is still on his noticeboard in the tiny hallway of his apartment. A formal invitation to a three month course to become a certified trainer - completey paid for and sponsored by his former ballet company, the only condition being a five year contract to only teach at their very own academy. 

It's scary. He's not sure if he's in a state to be back in those halls again, back in front of those painfully familiar mirrors and barres, even if just to teach.

His therapist says he is, urges him to accept the chance to return to the one profession he has known and loved for his whole life, but right now, all that idea gives him is panic attacks and sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and the unfiltered fear of another accident. What if he couldn't do it anymore? It's been months since he had last danced, almost a year, and he isn't even sure if his body is in any way capable of any real movement anymore. 

Sure, he has tried. Has made careful baby steps in his own living room, hand resting on the back of his couch, a careful demi plié, a forced arabesque, and then he breaks down and has to fight the tears and god, it's just... not happening. Yet. Or maybe never again.

***

And so the days drip by, and nothing really changes. Summer passes, so does autumn, and with big steps the year is nearing the one date he has been dreading eversince.

The streets are eerily quiet in the mornings now that the days are getting shorter again, the night still lingering as he makes his way to the café. It's weird, opening up the store in the dark, the light almost too harsh to be comfortable, but his eyes get used to it as he sets up the counter, lets all the machines come to life with trained movements.

7am sharp he unlocks the doors, and the usual crowd starts dropping by with their usual orders and their usual small talk. Everything's the usual, day in, day out, and it's tiring.

Around 10am he finds time for a break, finally, and pours himself a cup of coffee, picks a bagel out of the display and warms it up briefly in the small oven.

The doorbell rings, and Kyle looks up with his mouth full and a piece of salad hanging out of the corner of his mouth, a little bit of sauce dripping down his chin, can't really hide the annoyed expression. Give a man a break, will you?

"Phorry", he mumbles, lets the bagel sit on the back counter as he wipes his mouth with a tissue. "How can I help you?", he finally manages after chewing and swallowing quickly and getting rid of the tissue. He must look a proper mess, he realizes.

"There's still sauce in your, uh, beard", the other dude says with a small smile, and Kyle shrugs. "For later", he jokes, but wipes it away anyway.

"So...", he says after a moment, still waiting for the other guy to place his order.

"What would you recommend?"

He doesn't usually get asked for recommendations, so he has to think for a second.

"The moccha frappe is the offer of the day", he eventually says, but the other guy shakes his head. 

"No, I mean, what's your recommendation? Like, your favorite?"

"Oh." Weirdo. "I usually just drink plain coffee. Black."

"So, that. Please." He hesitates. "And a triple choc cookie. Do you have Wi-Fi?"

"Yeah, we do", Kyle answers while he starts prepping the coffee and fishes the cookie out of the jar with a pair of pliers. "The password is on the receipt."

"Thank you."

Only after the guy has set up his laptop on one of the tables in the back, Kyle lets himself observe him properly. He's quite tall - not as tall as he is himself, but close - with messy dark hair, thick-rimmed glasses, a huge over-the-shoulder bag. He looks like the epitome of a teacher, or a librarian maybe, or some hipster author, as he types away rapidly on his keyboard. Probably writes edgy poetry or cheesy YA novels, he thinks as he tries to stare without getting noticed, but he can't deny he's quite attractive, in a nerdy way that annoys him somehow. And that huge scarf... God, that dude was such a hipster, it almost hurt.

"You okay?"

The voice tears him out of his trance, and he can feel his face flush deep red. "Uh, yes. Sorry."

"You looked like you were in pain."

"Yeah, sorry. I - I didn't mean to stare. Just wondering what you were writing. If you don't mind me asking."

"Not at all", hipster says and takes off his glasses, folds them neatly before placing them on the table next to his coffee. "I'm writing a seminar paper. It's for uni."

"Wouldn't've taken you for a student."

"Because I'm old?" 

Hipster laughs, and it's cute. Damn it.

"That's not.. That's really not what I meant. But, yeah, if you want - you don't really look like you're 19, I guess."

"27", he says, puts his glasses back on. He suddenly seems nervous. "I've taken a few.. Well. Shortcuts isn't the proper word, since all they did was take me places I didn't really wanna go, but.. Yeah. Took me some time to realize this is what I wanted to do. So, little old maybe. Not too old, though", he emphasizes with a smile, takes a sip from his coffee. 

"How about you? Always dreamed of being a barista?"

"Not really", Kyle says as he starts unloading the dishwasher, wants to busy his hands so he doesn't seem all too interested in hipster. "Used to dance."

He's not sure why he tells that to a complete stranger. He doesn't talk about it, ever. His friends know better than to mention his former career by now.

"Professionally? Wow. That must be, uh, well. Something."

"It was."

It seems like hipster knows better than to poke around. Good call.

"I'm gonna keep writing now, if you don't mind."

"Sure."

They spent the day in silence, and as the café fills again in the afternoon, Kyle is too busy to pay attention to hipster, and when it's finally nearing closing time, he sneaks a glance towards his table, only to realize he must've left hours ago. Damn it, he thinks, then corrects himself. Just some guy. Don't waste your time.

***

To his surprise, hipster visits the café again the next day.

They talk about this and that, nothing too serious. It's mostly small talk, but Kyle finds himself enjoying the company a lot. Maybe even a little too much, seeing that he barely knows the guy. He does know his name now, at least - Daniel, or Dan, he has no preference - has an embarrassing middle name he doesn't tell anyone, like, ever - and he majors in English literature with theatre arts as secondary. 

And he's fucking adorable, but that's just a sidenote. He notices that while he's resting his elbows on the counter, one leg kicked back behind him, totally and utterly relaxed, head in one hand, intently staring while Dan goes on and on about his paper (which is due next week), and he realizes he hasn't listened at all, just stared - stared at hand gestures and knitted brows and ice-blue eyes and the soft shadow of scruff on cheeks and jaw and the way Dan's nose sometimes scrunches up when he talks. And then it gets busy again and Kyle wouldn't mind kicking everyone out and closing up just to get another five minutes of listening (staring).

By the end of the day, Dan is gone, and Kyle is annoyed with himself for not having had the chance to say goodbye yet again. Tomorrow, he swears silently, tomorrow I'll ask him for his number. Or at least say goodbye.

For the first time since his accident, he walks up the stairs to the theatre completely. Freezes in front of the door, hand on the knob already. He can't. It hurts, being stuck in front of this building every single day, unable to walk in, as if an invisible wall is holding him back, and he just keeps running against it with full force, never knowing any better. 

He's not ready.

***

The next day, Dan doesn't show, and Kyle is too resignated too care. Would've been too good to be true, he reasons, no use worrying about it.

The letter on his noticeboard seems to be laughing at him, and in the heat of the moment, he tears it off and throws it into the bin. That's what you get for being such a little shit, he thinks, and when he wakes up that night from his familiar nightmare, he thinks he might deserve it.


	2. Two

Yes, he loves uni: Loves studying, loves the fact that he has the chance to learn about something he is passionate about - it's quite the pleasant change from the life he used to live, a life of work that he had no interest in with people that were as far from his regular crowd as they could be. 

But still, when he gets the chance to go on a fully paid for trip to an international convention for specialist books - hell, he is the first student to sign up. 

It's a three day adventure that couldn't've been any better if he'd dreamed it up. He gets to hear a reading by one of his favorite authors, meets a whole bunch of people with similar interests, gets into a heated discussion about Shakespeare and his affinity for dirty jokes after a lecture in the auditorium of the convention hall - to sum it up, he's pretty much in paradise.

But as all good things do, unfortunately, the convention comes to an end, and after sharing contact info with some of his fellow students from other universities and a big goodbye he finds himself on the plane back to London.

London itself isn't exactly the place he has always imagined to be. He rather enjoys the more quiet countryside, doesn't like the loud and pretentious people you usually find in the city - but the educational program in London is second to none, and for the sake of his own advantage later on, he packed up his bags and left for the big city a few months ago.

To his own surprise, he finds his niche quickly: makes some new friends, even attends a few parties. The only thing missing is a place like his old study café; quiet and too far away from campus to be frequented by other students but not too far to be inconvenient to get to. 

At first, he just googled some options, but nothing really catches his eye. Of course, Starbucks is omnipresent, but he knows from experience that it's close to impossible to actually get work done in those shops: They were far too crowded and overpopulated with all kinds of folks that weren't exactly known for being quiet. 

So when he finds the little café on his way home from study group, he's naturally drawn to it - it seemed to check all the right categories, and he decides to give it a try the next day.

The cute barista there is probably more of a distraction than a helpful bonus, but he decides that he's gonna be able to deal with it. He's always been good at pushing feelings or distractions to the back of his mind for his work, even back when he'd still worked in other, less fulfilling fields, so he's convinced that there won't be an imminent issue at hand.

Even when he found himself thinking about the café - or rather, said barista - while he was at the convention, he managed to blame it on simple homesickness. Of course, he doesn't really feel at home in London yet, but, well, he wasn't about to get all sappy and cheesy and interpret more into the thoughts than there was. A crush maybe, fine, he could admit that, but not serious enough to make acting on it a realistic option.

God, he is so great at play pretend.

The thought is intrusive and he discards it quickly, almost angrily, upon entering the café two days after being back to uni.

It has been a week since he'd last been here, and if Kyle has noticed, he is just as great at pretending as Dan himself. With a forced casual nod he makes his way to his usual table (could one say usual after only visiting twice before? He wasn't sure), sets up his laptop and starts writing his assignment. 

Kyle gets his order ready, but he doesn't actually bring it to his table. For a few minutes, Dan pretends that he doesn't notice the steaming hot cup of coffee and the cookie, and Kyle seems awfully busy - pacing back and forth and restoring random items from left to right on the counter, until apparently neither of them has the nerve to keep up the play anymore.

"Hey, I just -"

"I've been wondering -"

They start talking at the same time, stop at the same time, stare at each other, uncomfortable laughter.

"You first", Dan says, leaning back on the chair and taking off his glasses. 

"Okay", Kyle mumbles, wringing the dishtowel in his hands, nervous. It's adorable, really, the way his face is so utterly readable - like an open book. Every emotion is so clear on it, unable to hide anything, even if he seems to be trying really hard to appear casual. "I've been wondering if you were gonna come back. Been a while."

"Yeah. I was out of town for a few days. Sorry." He isn't sure why he apologizes for that - it's not like he has to justify himself, especially not towards Kyle.

"No need to be sorry." He looks confused for a second upon the unexpected apology, then starts busying his hands again with all sorts of chores he really doesn't need to do - sorts the cutlery, puts the cups in some weird order that doesn't make sense to Dan, folds the towels. "Where did you go to? If you don't mind me asking."

"Convention in Berlin", Dan explains, but before he can break into an exhaustive account of his trip Kyle interrupts him. "Coffee?"

"Oh, right."

The cup isn't that hot anymore now, and he decides to drink it while leaning against the counter. It makes Kyle nervous, he can tell, and it's almost laughable to think that he might be the reason for it. People don't usually react this strongly to him - or maybe they aren't as readable for him as Kyle is.

"So - missed me?", he asks out of the blue, teasing, and Kyle just snorts. 

"You wish. No-one going on and on about english lit and keeping me from work - these past few days were heaven, actually."

"You're a damn liar", Dan jokes, but he can't help wondering if he really is that annoying. He has been told before that he can be a bit much at times, constantly chatting to hide his insecurity - but with his work, it really is simple, unfiltered passion concerning every single aspect of it. So hearing someone put that down, even just as a joke - it stings.

Apparently, his own expressions are as easily determined as Kyle's, because without warning, Kyle leans forward, across the counter, and catches his gaze with his own. "Hey, overthinker. I was _joking_. You can talk about uni. It's cute."

"Well. Uh." 

They're a tiny bit close to each other for his own taste, so Dan takes a step back to restore the appropriate distance for two strangers (who are playfully flirting, or something like that, but still).

"Eloquent answer."

"Fuck off."

"Oh! The goody two shoes uni student can swear. Good heavens. You kiss your mother with tha mouth of yours?"

With an eyeroll, Dan makes his way back to his table, but he can't help the smile. Damn it.


End file.
